


In Which We Create A Supernova Together

by Lennelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drunkenness, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sam Winchester, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Queer Sam Winchester, Stanford Era, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 16:11:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8496709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lennelle/pseuds/Lennelle
Summary: Sam's a little drunk. Brady might be, too. The two of them learn something.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of wrote some smut for the first time in my life??

It's cold for a night in California, and by cold it means it's not sandal weather. Sam has already taken off his jacket, he wrapped it around his waist and he has to keep tightening where the arms are tied together because it threatens to slide right off his hips. Brady laughs and tugs at it, pulling the denim jacket away and dangling it out of reach. Sam is taller than Brady, his arms are much longer, but Brady presses his hand to Sam's chest and pushes him away.

"Give it back, Brady," Sam huffs, but there's laughter bubbling up from his gut. He's filled with bubbles: laughter, beer, too much tequila.

"Make me, giant," Brady taunts, he grins maniacally and turns, running for the dorm building. Sam sets off after him, fast at first but slower once he realises the world is tilting too much for him to keep steady on his feet. The area around the dorms is just pathways and grass, Sam veers off the concrete suddenly and lands in a heap by the bushes. Once he starts laughing, he can't stop.

Brady comes jogging into view, Sam's jacket in hand. He crouches next to Sam and pokes him in the ribs.

"For such a big guy I'd have thought you could hold your liquor better than that," he teases. 

"I drank  _a lot_ ," Sam insists.

Brady rolls his eyes. "Three beers and two shots?" he says. "I had more than you and I'm the one who's still on his feet."

"I'm not that drunk," Sam says. "I'm just tipsy."

"Whatever you say," Brady says, and bursts into laughter. Sam starts laughing, too. He's not entirely sure what's so funny, but it is. He can barely breath because of it.

"I want pizza," Sam suddenly decides. "And I want fries with curry sauce."

"So we're going to Pizza Hut  _and_ the Indian takeout?"

"Yes. Definitely. And we should go to In-N-Out."

"I think you should get to bed," Brady advises. "Don't you have a presentation tomorrow?"

Sam frowns. "I do?"

"Yes, Sam, you do."

"But I haven't prepared it."

"Sam, you prepared it last week, remember? The Art history presentation on the pre-something-ite era?"

Sam blinks. There's nothing but dark skies above him, oh, and Brady's face. He stares a little. Brady has the clearest green eyes, and when the sun shines on them they look almost cat-like and pale, and despite being only 18 years old he has fine crinkles around them because he just never seems to stop smiling. And his hair, it's long at the front and short at the back and it looks so soft, Sam wishes he could run his fingers through it.

"Sam?"

Brady is gazing at him, and where Sam's hand is lingering by his face. Sam quickly pulls his hand back, clenches his fist, averts his gaze and tries to count the leaves on the bush he's sprawled next to. He jerks a little when Brady's hand slips into his. It's warm and dry where Sam is sure his is clammy. He finds himself returning the grip, barely resists the urge the rub the pad of his thumb across Brady's knuckles.

Then, he's yanked upright, up onto his feet. He nearly tumbles back down again but Brady catches him around the waist and pulls one of his arms over his shoulder. They make their slow and silent way over to their building. Brady stumbles a couple of times when Sam is managing to keep himself straight, and he suspects maybe Brady is drunker than he'd thought, too.

"We can still order pizza," Brady offers. "I know one place that stays open until 3am."

Sam had completely forgotten about wanting food, he's not very hungry anymore. Not for pizza, anyway.

"Can we just... go back to our room?" Sam asks.

Brady looks at him for a moment, but Sam can't read his expression. "Sure," Brady says, and they help each other up the steps and into the building. They take the elevator because three flights of stairs may as well be Everest.

Sam's not sure when it happened but, between falling into the bushes outside and returning to their room, there's now an awkwardness between them. No one is laughing anymore, no one is saying a word. Brady won't even look at Sam as he unlocks their door. Sam follows him inside, closes the door behind them. When he turns back, Brady is only a breath away from him, eyes on his, lingering downwards.

Then, his lips are on Sam's. Sam is so surprised he doesn't move, just lets Brady kiss him. His lips are soft and warm and inviting and...

Just as quickly, Brady pulls away. He's gone back to avoiding Sam's gaze.

"I'm so sorry," Brady says. "I have no idea where that came from. I mean, I've been thinking about it for weeks but... it's not fair to spring that on you when you're drunk.

Honestly, Sam feels like he's sobered up quite a bit.

"I'm really sorry," Brady is babbling now. "I completely understand if you want to switch roommates."

Sam starts to laugh then and Brady stares at him like he's grown two heads.

"Will you shut up?" Sam says. Then, he's striding forward, right up to Brady, toe to toe. He takes Brady's face in his hands and he leans down and presses their lips together. They brush together, teasing, feeling and sensing, drinking the other in. Brady's hands come up to grip Sam's shoulders and the kiss becomes more demanding. Suddenly, Brady pulls away again.

"Wait. I thought you weren't - "

"Gay?" Sam asks, laughing. "Does it look like I'm straight to you?"

He pecks Brady's lips.

"I'd thought the same thing about you," Sam admits. "I thought you weren't into me."

"Are you blind?" Brady stutters. "I've been so embarrassing. I mean, I don't even take Psych."

Sam blinks at him. For the past several weeks, Sam has had an English Lit class at 7am, same time as Brady's Psych class, and the two of them have been having breakfast on their way to campus every morning.

"Wait. What?" Sam blurts.

"I just... I dunno."

Sam smiles. His hand reaches up and his fingers touch the long strands of Brady's hair, they sink deeper, comb through, and their lips are meeting again, more urgently this time. The two of them, hands touching, mouths working, stumble together over to Brady's bed. They drop down into it, not parting for a second. Brady pulls away again.

"I left your jacket outside," he says.

Sam rolls his eyes. "I don't care."

Brady shrugs and leans down, presses Sam into the mattress, holds him there with a kiss. Sam's heart is beating in his chest, free and excited, dancing between his ribs. He can feel the excitement creeping lower into his body. Brady presses down, rubs his thigh against Sam's crotch, dragging a soft moan from Sam's lips.

Sam reaches down, fumbles to find Brady's zipper and tugs it. He slips his hand beneath his boxers and Brady gasps against Sam's mouth. Brady lifts away for a second and tugs off his shirt, then he lies back down, bare chest against Sam's body, hands roaming under Sam's shirt.

Sam has never experienced anything like this. There was his first kiss. A kiss with Lucy Hunt in the eighth grade, it was awkward as anything, too met and messy, mostly empty. He'd kissed a couple of girls after that, and while the quality of the kissing improved, the feeling did not. Then, there was Mike Hannigen in his senior year of high school. That kiss was a kiss that made the world fall away. There was nothing but Mike's hands pinning him to the back of the science supply closet, his lips and tongue exploring Sam's, their bodies pressed together. It was a thing that made Sam feel fireworks going off inside.

Right now, with Brady, it's even better. It's not just fireworks, it's a supernova.

They move together, lips fluid, made for each other. Sam's not sure when his shirt came off but next thing he knows they're skin to skin, jeans and boxers being kicked off and dropped to the floor. Sam takes Brady in his hand just as he feels Brady's hand wrap around his length. Brady's lips trail their way from Sam's mouth and journey down to his neck, burrow at his collar, bruise the skin there. 

Sam is breathing like he's been running, his mouth feels puffy and tingly. Brady moves rhythmically, stroking Sam gently, pulling stuttered breaths from him. Sam works, mimicking Brady's movements, hand sliding.

"Don't stop," Sam says, he's not entirely sure why the words come out, but Brady obliges. A chorus of Brady's name comes tumbling out next, right up until Sam can't say it anymore, back arching off the mattress, chest pressing against Brady's. The two of them collapse into each other, lazy and breathless. They're a mess, slick and sweaty, tangled between the bed sheets.

Brady rests his head against Sam's shoulder and closes his eyes. Sam rolls onto his side until their foreheads are touching. They stay that way until they fall asleep, waking in the same position, greeting each other with their lips against the other's.

For the first time since Sam left his family, he feels like he belongs.


End file.
